Kickoff The Harris Family Beginnings
The Harris Family Beginnings
Vaughn Harris
One more step would mean certain death, I think as I stare at the striking woman sitting in a dingy East London pub.
She’s a diamond in the rough of the strange assortment of people from all walks of life in here.
My teammates and I usually try to find a local pub like this whenever we’re traveling for matches so we can drink without any fans disturbing us.
But right now, it’s not the football fans bothering me.
It’s this woman.
I’ve been watching her for the better part of three hours, and every time I consider approaching, I psych myself out.
Which is ridiculous, because I’m a professional footballer—I’ve played in the most intense matches, against world-class athletes.
On top of that, I’ve slept with countless women while traveling the world, and while they sweeten the night, they never linger in my thoughts.
But as I stare at this woman across this particular pub, the feeling building in my chest is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
Certain death.
However, I’m quite certain that my internal debate will be halting soon, because ten minutes ago, some drunken arsehole slithered his way up to her, and I’ve had a death grip on my pint glass ever since.
The woman doesn’t look happy. But she doesn’t look like she needs saving, either…which only makes her more gorgeous. She’s tall with an elegant body that looks like it was made for dancing. However, her stance is strong and athletic. I imagine she can hold her own with some drunken arsehole.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
“Have you found your next conquest, Harris?” my teammate, Arthur, drunkenly croaks while ruffling my dark hair and slopping beer on the floor in front of us. His half-hooded eyes are glazed over as he stares at the blonde. “She looks like a rough tart in need of a hard shag.”
“Shut up, you,” I bark, and shove him into the rest of my teammates who are drinking behind us.
They look at me with confusion as Arthur straightens and licks the spilled beer off his hand. “Oi, no need to get your knickers in a twist. I’m just taking the piss.”
My nostrils flare. “You could be talking about my future wife.” I turn away from him and glance back at the blonde, my eyes narrowing with intensity when I see that same drunken idiot has now wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she does not look pleased.
The woman and I make eye contact for the hundredth time, and I decide then and there that death or not, I can’t stay away a moment longer.
I barrel across the pub, ignoring the cackling of my teammates behind me as I watch the man attempt to whisper in the woman’s ear.
She folds in on herself and tries to politely pull out of his embrace.
Her uncomfortable demeanour causes my blood pressure to skyrocket while the drum of my heartbeat echoes in my ears.
This twat must be a complete imbecile, because he doesn’t take the hint.
I briefly consider how bad it could be for a professional footballer to assault a pub patron. Surely, that will end with me paying this arsehole a lot of money. But when I see his hand dip lower on her hip…I don’t give a fucking toss.
When I reach him, I clamp down on his shoulder, and when he turns to look at me, he jolts as if I’ve struck him, and his face contorts into pure agony.
I glance down to see the woman’s knee has landed smartly in the arsehole’s crown jewels.
I try to yank the man away from her, but before I can, he crumples to the filthy pub floor and begins to howl like an injured animal.
I swallow hard, barely stopping myself from cupping my own balls for comfort. I then shake that thought away and make a move to drag him off, but the blonde shoves me out of her way. She stands between his legs and kicks him in the balls one more time for good measure.
“Touch me ever again, and my next kick will render you a eunuch,” she growls in a thick Scandinavian accent as the bloke looks like he’s going to pass out from the pain. He crawls away with his knackered cock, and my gaze turns to the beauty before me.
“Christ,” I croak, my jaw dropping as my body remains paralysed in shock.
Her chest heaves as she turns her fierce blue eyes on me. “What do you want?” she snaps, clearly ready for another brawl. “Do you have a problem with me eliminating this man’s cock?”
“Not at all,” I stammer, my throat suddenly dry as her voice resonates through my entire body.
I glance down, taking in her wide stance and fierce, no-bullshit expression.
She flips her long, golden locks over her shoulders and eyes me with a warning that causes an ache in my chest. The ache is so intense it feels like a bloody truck has just run straight through me.
I clear my throat, and add, “My only problem is that I think I might be in love with you.”
The woman blinks, her intense sapphire gaze unrelenting on mine. “Emasculating a man is cause for love? Are you sick in the mind?”
I nod and shake my head at the same time because bloody hell, maybe I am. “Probably,” I reply and then mentally try to get control of myself. “Can I buy you a drink? I promise to keep my hands to myself.”
Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down and reaches to the nearby pub table to retrieve her glass of wine. She takes a fortifying sip and lifts it to me. “I don’t need you to buy me a drink.”
“Then let me give you a life,” I reply quickly, recovering the boldness that left me for a moment.
The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Are you assuming I have no life?”
“Not at all.” My eyes roam down her pale blonde hair, glowing in the dim pub lighting. “But my life didn’t start until I met you, so I figured it was only polite of me to return the favour.”
She laughs, and it sounds like a fucking angel. I decide right then and there that I want to make this woman laugh forever.
Moments later, we’re huddled over a small pub table by the front window. The yellow street light basks her in a golden light; it feels similar to gazing into a sunset. She’s like an elegant dream with a strength I’ve never seen in a woman. She’s enchanting.
“What’s your name?” I ask hesitantly because she throws me off my game like no other.
She stares back at me with a blank, unreadable expression. “Vilma Nystrom.”
I lick my lips and tilt my head. “Is that Swedish?”
She nods, impressed. “How did you know?”
“There was a famous footballer I loved who was Swedish and had the same last name. I’m sure it’s a common one up there.”
She gets a peculiar look on her face and then takes a sip of her wine. “What is your name?”
“I’m Vaughn Harris,” I reply smugly, expecting her to react because I don’t come across many people who haven’t heard my name.
She doesn’t react.
I have to fight back my smile.
“Do you like the name Harris?” I ask, eyeing her cheekily.
She shrugs as if bored while looking to the bar where her friends are busy taking shots. “It’s a fine name, I guess. Why do you ask?”
I need her attention back on me so I quickly reply, “Because if we get married someday, I’d quite like you to take my name.” I smirk and lift my drink to my lips as she whips her eyes back to me in surprise.
She tries to hide her smile.
She fails.
I fucking love it.
“Are you from London?” she asks, clearly not ready to discuss our future nuptials quite yet.
This is a good sign. She wants to know more about me. The feeling is mutual, Vilma. I want to know everything about you. “Originally, I’m from here, but I currently live in Manchester.” I lower my pint to the table and casually add, “I play football for United.”
I watch her carefully, expecting the reaction that most women have when they find out what I do for a living. When she stares blankly at me, I realise I should have known that Vilma…isn’t like most women.
“I don’t understand football,” she says with a heavy sigh while propping her elbows on the table. “It’s so much running, and the scoring is so low. It’s a very dull sport, yes?”
I blink.
And blink.
And blink some more.
Clearing my throat, I lean forward. “I’m sorry…I must not have heard you correctly because it almost sounded like you called football dull?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, football is dull.”
That ache in my chest returns, but it’s not the same sensation as before. This is the feeling I get when I miss a penalty kick, or like the kick in the nuts she executed only moments earlier.
The love of my life cannot hate football.
“Darling, how good is your English?” I ask, sending a prayer up to the heavens that this is some horrible language barrier.
“My English is perfect,” she snaps defensively and narrows her eyes at me. “I’m at the University of London on a scholarship.”
“So, you’re clearly very bright,” I reply, running a hand through my dark hair and biting my lip nervously.
“Then how in the bloody hell can you call football dull?” I splay my hands out on the table and stare her straight in the eyes.
“It’s a widely known fact that football is the most magnificent game in the entire world. ”
“Clearly not widely known,” she retorts with a shrug and then takes a sip of her wine without breaking eye contact with me. “If I don’t know it, it’s not wide.”
I slow blink once more, wondering if I can truly allow myself to be in love with a woman who can so easily desecrate my religion. “You must let me change your mind.”
She shakes her head. “How would you do that?”
“I’ll…bring you to one of my matches,” I reply quickly. “We play in Manchester at Old Trafford in a couple of weeks. You have not lived if you’ve not attended a football game there. Let me fly you there.”
“Fly me there?” She laughs with wide eyes. “You hardly know me. Why would you go to such an expense?”
I reach across the table and grab her hand, a spark running through my veins at the skin-on-skin contact. “Because this night…this moment…this feeling I get when I look at you…can’t be for nothing.”